


Hurt Locker

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comment Fic, Gen, One of My Favorites, POV Outsider, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-12
Updated: 2010-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:43:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <span><a href="http://spnquotefic.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://spnquotefic.livejournal.com/"><b>spnquotefic</b></a></span>  meme # 21, <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/spnquotefic/8328.html">Salvation</a>.  Meg: "You're dead, John. Your boys are dead."<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurt Locker

He has more scars than a ten-year junkie. He's never used, though. You can tell because he still has that haunted look, the look that says maybe he should try it, just once, just so he can let go of whatever demons of the past are chasing him long enough to take a breath.

You take his pulse and it's steady. You check his eyes and they're empty. You test his reflexes, and they're perfect. You listen to his heart beating, feel the muscle underneath the metal of your stethoscope when you lift the instrument away. You sigh. You hate not having answers.

"There's nothing physically wrong with him," you say to the man who brought him here, not a little harshly. "I'm not going to be able to help him if you don't tell me what happened."

The other man doesn't look much better, but at least he's present. At least he seems to understand your questions. He's been pale and withdrawn ever since you walked in here, nodding slightly when you speak and holding his silence like a shield when you don't.

Now, he merely shrugs, too tired to explain. "War."

You feel your stomach flip unpleasantly. Veteran cases aren't anything new to you, but dammit, they aren't supposed to come back like this. Especially not this young.

You turn back to your patient, put your hand on his shoulder. "Paul, I'm going to get you some medicine, alright? It will make you feel better. I'll be right back. You just relax, can you do that for me?"

No response. You weren't expecting one.

You walk to the door, lifting your clipboard on the way, readying a med order for sedatives, the kind you only whip out for the near-dead or severe trauma survivors. You press your lips together. You're getting too old for this shit.

The soft whisper of his brother stops you in your tracks with one foot already in the hallway. It's his tone that grabs you. The weariness is still there, but it's blanketed by anguish, and by and something much more devastating - hope.

"Doc, do you ... can you really help him?"

You finally look at him, _really look_ , and you realize - this kid is a soldier, too.

Your throat suddenly aches. You clear it firmly, delaying the tears that you know will come later, when you're home with your family and your dog and your picket fence, appallingly unaffected by the war that cost these two boys their lives.

"We'll do the best we can," you say, trying hard to sound reassuring. "I'm going to go ahead and script out some meds to relax him. He seems anxious, but I wouldn't say he's given any indication of being a danger to himself. You can go ahead and take him home for tonight, but I'm scheduling a psych evaluation for first thing in the morning."

He drops his eyes back down to the floor, nodding briefly. It's his favorite place to look.

You exit the room grateful to turn your face away, hating yourself for having little better than Band-aides to throw at invisible wounds so huge. Trying not to imagine what it looked like to that kid in there when he went to Hell and back.

He's never been a user, but that's changing tonight. It's the least you can do to try and say thank you. 


End file.
